


untitled cabin verse #6: the subspace one

by Red



Series: Cabin 'Verse PWPs [6]
Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Multiple Orgasms, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Slapping, Subspace, Vibrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-09
Updated: 2008-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As usual, done for the PWKM, this time in response to a prompt requesting something concerning subspace and aftercare. </p>
<p>Phoenix, feeling put out by Miles's endless stack of grading, decides to submit his own paper. Somehow, writing an essay entitled "Miles Edgeworth Owes Me Four Orgasms: The Sociological Implications of Not Getting Your Amazingly Hot Boyfriend Off" delivers some rather promising results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled cabin verse #6: the subspace one

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt and so on [are over here on the meme](http://bludhavens.livejournal.com/38756.html?thread=11719268). Awesomely, someone actually _wrote that paper_ , too. Thanks to HalfLight for [the copy of Phoenix's essay](http://lenarix-klinde.livejournal.com/23817.html), and big thanks to everyone who was on the meme.

He'd lost track of the time. The drawn curtains, the room's stillness, the unchanging glow of those overpriced "natural spectrum" bulbs--it felt like hours had passed just since he'd so much as been able to grasp the _concept_ of time. 

Of course, it wasn't as if it entirely mattered. The amount of time he'd been kept like this--rasp of jute constant at his wrists and ankles and thighs--wasn't important. The fact that his legs had been a dull ache of strain for so long that he couldn't remember them feeling any other way, that his skin itched with sweat where he was pressed against the ottoman, that his only view was that stupid towel sopping up his own drool: none of this mattered. 

A slow burn of rope pulled across his inner thigh, and he was moaning again. It was a wet sound, nasal and long and muffled by a spit-soaked gag. 

"I'm not doing this for my own amusement. Are you even paying attention?" 

No, I'm contemplating how thrilling a read _Irish Law in the Latter 20th Century: A Summary_ must be. 

Of course, but do you have to tie up your seven-thirty lecture students, too?

At one time, even with the gag, he could have conveyed all that to Miles. He might be raw and mindless and nearly drunk, but he was sure of that much. Right now, however... Now, like the gracing touch of Miles' hand, his thoughts were aimless, light, beyond his control. 

"Yeeph," he answered honestly, forgetting to even think the implied "do I have a choice?" 

"Good. As long as I made you wait, I'd hate to have you miss out on any of your reward. Just one more time now, Phoenix." 

Shaking his head desperately, he whined again, not caring how completely pathetic he sounded. If Edgeworth thought he was going to force a fourth orgasm in however-many hours, with Phoenix feeling as dried-out and dazed as he did, he was insane. Trying to writhe away from Miles' hand, agonizing against his limp cock, was a searing, painful mistake. The ropes tight around him, the leather he'd already ruined sticky and uncomfortable against his skin--this certainly didn't seem anything like a reward. 

Miles slapped him, startling against his thigh, and his exhausted muscles barely twitched in response. No, it sure as hell wasn't any reward--wasn't exactly like he'd done too much to deserve one--but this was, he thought hazily, every minute the most mind-blowing gift. Miles letting him ruin his furniture, letting him sob and drool and look like an idiot, letting him forget, even if only for a while, the lame baggage that happened to come with being Phoenix Wright: right now, this was all that mattered. 

It took him a moment before he realized Miles was cautiously still beside him. Lost in himself, he'd forgotten that kind of slap wasn't just a playful "pay attention." Shakily, he mumbled something incoherent and muffled back, a "yeah, right here" to Miles' "still with me?" and immediately, he felt Edgeworth relax. Sometimes, he'd wonder how thoroughly Miles freaked out about this sort of thing--that they'd been doing this for so long, they had built an entire language of grunts and blows--but for now, he was just glad Miles had become at least this relaxed about it. 

Slumping in the bonds, unable to do anything else, he submitted to the lubed fingers thrusting into him again. His mind was a blur. At once he was thinking how at one time, Miles wouldn't dream of tying him up--much less tying him up in a position this obviously uncomfortable, and much, much less tying him up when gagged--and wondering what Miles was thinking. He'd been fucked twice already, and he was still reeling with the warm raw ache of it. As loose and still lube-slick as he was, he really didn't think he needed to be stretched again.

If that's even what Miles had in mind. Edgeworth had already come twice. Phoenix didn't know how long it'd been since the last time, but his face still felt warm from when Miles had carelessly fingered him open after shooting that second load, the embarrassing wet trickle down his perineum and balls. Didn't Miles care about his office?

He groaned and tried, stupidly, to buck away. 

"Whatever you're thinking, Wright," Miles said, hooking his fingers to press down again ruthlessly, "Remember you're not getting out of this. Four orgasms. That is what you claim I owe you, correct?" 

At first, the words were lost on him. He was so mindless that when everything came back in a rush, it was dizzying. 

How could he have forgotten? Miles had been so busy grading term papers with exceptionally terrifying titles like "The Economic Ramifications of the Jurist System: A Business Model Approach", that he'd brushed Phoenix off for four days. Normally, Phoenix wouldn't mind. Four days was nothing, in terms of their relationship--Miles was always out of the country for four month spans--and just having Miles around was good enough for Phoenix. But if Miles was going to be in the country while Trucy was off playing camp counselor for the Young Magician Association of America, well. There were certain things a guy felt he could reasonably expect, and he finally got fed up enough to do something stupid. 

He wrote a five-page paper with the unfortunate title "Miles Edgeworth Owes Me Four Orgasms: The Sociological Implications of Not Getting Your Amazingly Hot Boyfriend Off," and snuck near the bottom of the stack.

Apparently, Edgeworth had caught up with his grading. 

Miles stroked rough over his prostate once more. "Correct?"

Nodding his head made swallowing back his spit suddenly much more difficult, and he blushed, cursing this horrid gag Miles had forced on him. If Miles had any of his usual tidy, anal-retentive nature over all the drool, he wasn't showing it. Beyond having thrown that rag on the carpet--and even that Phoenix thought was orchestrated, to make him feel more embarrassed--Miles seemed cool, utterly unconcerned. 

This was totally worth being ignored most of the week.

"I have to say, it's surprising you're so distracted," Miles said, still as happy as ever to be his monologue-delivering self, even when fingering his bound lover. "You came across as so eloquent in your little treatise, Mr. Wright. It seemed you were so passionate," he crooked his fingers again, making Phoenix sob out a pained little sound, "So focused on your high ideals, that I had imagined you would be far more engaged in seeing them in practice."

And suddenly, with a final scissored stretch, Miles' fingers were gone. Phoenix shivered, confused--was he disappointed or relieved? Still trembling with want or nervousness, Phoenix focused only on Miles. He heard him move from behind him. 

Edgeworth's hand was firm and steadying on his back before he even knew he'd made a sound. "Phoenix, I'm not leaving the room," he said gently, and Phoenix relaxed easily under his touch, bewildered as to why he'd reacted so strangely. This was Edgeworth he was with--Miles, the guy who had a heart attack if so much as rained when Phoenix was in handcuffs ("You don't know it won't turn into a thunderstorm! You could hurt yourself."), who always made sure there was a way for Phoenix to wiggle from the ropes, in case of an earthquake. It didn't matter how many times they did this, he supposed--these strange, nearly drunken reactions were as uncontrollable and mysterious as ever. Miles, petting his hair back, seemed just as bemused. "I would never, when you could... I mean, you know I wouldn't do such a thing. Not as if you'd have a choice."

It was such a hilariously Edgeworth attempt to flip some magic "instant dom" switch that Phoenix had to laugh, despite the gag. It came out a wet, amused snort. Miles tugged his hair in warning, but seemed satisfied. Slowly, he moved away again, and Phoenix could almost feel his assessing gaze. 

Prepared for it, he suppressed that weird and intensely visceral fear of abandonment. He could hear Edgeworth moving around, walking somewhere farther behind him. Near the desk, he supposed. Sure enough, he soon heard the slight creak of a drawer opening. What the hell did Edgeworth have in his office, anyway? 

As Miles kneeled behind him again, he thought he had the answer. He might not hear it as often as he used to, but he'd know that distinctive crinkling, that sound of tearing foil, anywhere. Helplessly, he shuddered again. So Miles was going to fuck him again. He was going to fuck him again, and try to force that last orgasm, even if it took until tomorrow. 

Assuming, he thought frantically, it wasn't already "tomorrow." 

They still fucked with condoms from time to time. Sometimes it was because Miles would still occasionally get into one of his extra-fastidious moods, but more commonly, Miles just liked screwing Phoenix with one because he could take his sweet damn time. With two orgasms already, Phoenix had no doubt that Miles could take hours, and he bit nervously at the gag. 

There was a long, unbearable pause. Phoenix lifted his head, trying--for the thousandth time that night--to see anything of Miles, but for straining against the ropes, he just got the usual thrilling view of the bottom shelf of Miles' book case. 

One of these times, he'd see some campy gay samurai novels down there. No one could read that many books on tort law.

Miles laughed, leaning closer. "I don't know why you're so interested in those, Phoenix. It's not as if you haven't seen them before--most of what's on that shelf is at your 'agency,' you realize." 

He slumped again, panting. Exhausted, he couldn't stop shivering, and as cliché as it was, he felt like he'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted--and dreaded--this. When Miles seemed to pull away again as if to sit back, Phoenix frowned in confusion. Obviously, trying to see what Miles was up to wasn't going to accomplish anything, so Phoenix just mumbled his name incoherently in question.

In response, Miles only laughed again, pressing something against his ass. "I can't deny enjoying your perception of me as some sort of sex god. But three times in just over two hours? Please. I'm not giving myself an aneurysm." 

What about me? warred with do even I want to know what's being shoved in my ass?, and Phoenix murmured uncertainly. He couldn't even register what Miles said about the time--it had to be longer than that, Miles had to be mistaken--and as Miles kept pressing the thing in, he forgot about everything else, and sobbed. There was only one thing it could be, and he knew exactly what was back there.

He could feel Miles' smirk through the trail of sharp nips on his ass. "I see you're on the same page, now," he said, voice warm and low. As he stopped pressing the thing in, Miles licked soothingly over the bite marks, and sat back again. 

Desire and desperation twisted in Phoenix' stomach, and he snuffled again, trying not to feel so overwhelmed. He wanted to say he couldn't do this. Four times in--how many hours had Edgeworth said? It wasn't possible. It wasn't human.

But Edgeworth seemed to think otherwise. He turned the vibrator on, and didn't wait for Phoenix to adjust before he clicked it to that shudderingly intense, pulsing setting. Phoenix tried to swear, clawing desperately at the legs of the ottoman. Too much, he wanted to say, this thing might always get me off, but it's impossible, you ass. But Miles was angling it down deliberately against his prostate, and just gently stroking his lower back with his free hand. He was so concentrated, seemingly so determined and sure, that Phoenix stopped struggling immediately. It was impossible--but when had that stopped them before? 

Miles' hand on his back was a calming weight as the vibe thrummed steadily inside him. Only peripherally aware he was panting and groaning constantly, he centered on the contact, becoming so caught up that he nearly missed Miles' words. 

"You're close, Phoenix," he said, breath warm against Phoenix' skin, "If you quit getting distracted all the time, you'd already be there." 

His muscles tensed again, slackened, and he bit against the gag. The orgasm was short and dry, painful but amusingly anticlimactic. Yet...

Shuddering, he gripped at the ottoman again. That initial rush was so akin to falling, he panicked and thought he'd loose his balance, forgetting he was tied down. He could feel Miles quickly respond, gripping at his shoulder reassuringly and saying something he couldn't quite make out--voice quiet and low, and almost completely without that hint of worry he always had when they'd first started doing this--about self-preservation instincts and poor timing. Phoenix didn't reply. Even if whatever Miles was going on about made any sense (even if he weren't, he dimly remembered, gagged), he couldn't. Drunk as he felt, he was certain that if he spoke, it wouldn't likely be anything remotely intelligent. 

In a few minutes, his legs would be complaining again. Before the hour was out, Miles would have him in the bathroom, fussing over the angry rope burns with organic antibacterial cream that smelled unpleasantly of marigold, asking if Phoenix struggled because he liked wearing sweatshirts in July. Tomorrow, there probably wouldn't be a part of him that didn't hurt and he'd try to limp around the apartment until Edgeworth yelled at him, and eventually lie on his stomach on the couch, napping his day off away. But for now, he could barely feel his body--a shaky, odd, disembodied sensation--he was so high with endorphins. When Miles shut the vibrator off and pulled it slowly out, it was a relief. He liked floating through this feeling as much as the next guy, but he'd never been the type for too much escapism. Getting that thing out was at least a start to being grounded. 

It was one more thing Miles was almost perfect at, this sure but gradual way he had at making Phoenix feel a little less like he was falling off a bridge. Staying behind Phoenix, he slowly unworked the knots that held his legs, loosening the rope just enough to encourage Phoenix' legs into a comfortable sprawl. Phoenix winced--painful as the sudden spasm in his left leg was, he could feel it well enough through the haze. Briefly, Miles dug his fingers into the strained muscle, making Phoenix groan weakly--for someone who thought he was a dismal sadist, Miles sure had a funny "if it doesn't hurt, it's not working" massage policy--before moving around in front of Phoenix.

As many times as Miles had asked how he felt when he was in this state, where he went when he was vacant and nearly unresponsive, he'd never had a halfway decent answer. He could come up with a few analogies, but nothing ever seemed accurate. Miles never seemed satisfied with, "It's kinda like that moment right before you pass out, because your boyfriend is taking you on a really non-consensual cross-country run," and often reminded him that not all people had first-hand bridge-falling experience. 

There were never going to be words for it. "It's an altered state, Miles," he'd said one night as Miles tended carefully to welted crop marks, "I'm not going to be able to explain it and make any sense." 

Crouching in front of him now, Miles removed the gag. While he was still close, Phoenix decided (not considering for a moment that Miles might not enjoy being coated with slobber) to rub his face against Miles' hand affectionately. "You could taser me and I'd be happy right now, so don't worry about me. Don't do your freaking-out thing," was the rough translation of the wet nuzzle, and Miles said something unintelligible. He didn't seem to be worried, or to mind terribly about all the spit on his hand--gently, he stroked over Phoenix' jaw as he said whatever it was about dating St. Bernards. 

Indescribable as it was, he did love this dizzying feeling. But perhaps only, he thought foggily, because of Miles. He knew Miles would say he was being soppy again if he said as much. Heck, even he thought he was being a little excessively adoring, thinking like that--but it was undeniably true. Who else, he wondered, sighing with contentment as Miles mumbled an awkward apology and wiped his face, who else could he ever trust like this? While Phoenix was fully aware he'd always been far too trusting--it was just his nature, trusting total strangers with his life and livelihood--but even he never felt like he could trust anyone with this. 

Untying his arms, prodding cautiously at the reddened rope marks, Miles continued his usual monologue. Part self-conscious apology, part annoyed mothering, part amused commentary, Phoenix had never been able to catch very much of what was said, but he loved these post-coital speeches. He'd always thought Miles had a nice voice, and listening to the low cadence of "you're not going to like it when I pull you off of there," and "perhaps I should just get a spatula," was pleasant, even if he was a little too incapacitated to respond. 

Yeah, he thought tiredly, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Miles' repeated "Wright, you are going to move" and ignoring the constant nudging, there was definitely no one else on Earth who could do this for him. As easy-going as he was, most people above the age of three months could boss him around. But there was only one guy irritating, fussy, and self-important enough to make him peel himself off of sticky leather when all he wanted to do was melt into the furniture.

"Ughh," he managed, voice still weak and nasal. 

"Yes, it didn't sound all that pleas--ack! You could at least hold yourself upright for two seconds, Phoenix." Miles sighed, but supported Phoenix without sounding too put out over it. "Come on," Miles encouraged, "I'm not in the mood to pull my back carrying you to the shower. Yet." 

Somehow, he managed to let Edgeworth negotiate them into sitting on the floor--Miles leaning against the front of the desk, Phoenix sprawled, leaning against him--with a minimum of collapsing. He still felt a little disjointed, a little removed, and speech still seemed mostly beyond him. But he felt warm and comfortable, and Miles seemed content to wait it out, brushing his fingers lazily through Phoenix' hair. Slowly, listening to Miles' pulse, smelling his skin, basking under the firm massage to his neck and shoulders, he started feeling more collected.

It was still a few minutes before he spoke. "Really didn't think that was possible," he mumbled, rearranging himself into an even more warm and comfortable position.

Miles tried to extract his arm from under Phoenix' body. "Well, it serves as a lesson. One should always--Phoenix, it's my arm. Anyway, you should always use proper judgment in choosing a topic for your term paper." 

"Hmm. You should have been my tutor." 

"And get a degree at that fifth-rate grade-inflating excuse for a... Ouch! Phoenix, your sudden display of school spirit astounds me."

Grinning, Phoenix sat up and kissed Miles deeply, only pulling back when Miles really started getting annoyed about the whole squashed-arm issue. 

"Honestly," Miles complained again, "While you may feel otherwise, I enjoy feeling my limbs."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Hey, Miles, you know I love you?"

Finally getting his arm out from under Phoenix and wrapping it around him, Miles smirked. "Of course. Do you think I'd forget grading a paragraph that began, 'In conclusion, Mr. Edgeworth is an amazing lay and I completely adore him,' anytime soon?"


End file.
